


Carry On

by INMH



Series: hc_bingo fanfiction fills 2017 [3]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Electrocution, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Major Character Injury, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-18
Updated: 2017-06-18
Packaged: 2018-11-15 03:16:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11222133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/INMH/pseuds/INMH
Summary: There’s no really detailed way to describe being electrocuted.





	Carry On

[-1-]  
  
There’s no really unique way to describe being electrocuted.  
  
It’s much like in the way that there’s really no detailed way to describe the taste of chicken; one really can’t get an idea as to what chicken tastes like by describing the taste of other meat products. “It tastes like chicken” is really the closest you can get, and the taste can only be conceptualized by experiencing it yourself.  
  
This, Napoleon thinks, is much like being electrocuted: You can’t truly compare it to any other sensation, because there’s nothing that comes close enough to be accurate to it. Attempting to compare it to something else would be pointless; it can only be conceptualized after being personally experienced.  
  
Though he can’t explain the sensation of being electrocuted, he can explain what the immediate aftermath feels like: His head pounding, blood dripping from his nose, sliding into his mouth to mix with the blood of the cheek he’s accidentally bitten; a dull ringing echoes in his ears when the electricity stops, and it falls in time with the much more rapid beating of his heart.  
  
Somewhere amidst the fuzzy-headedness between the shocks, it occurs to him that he’s getting a much lower dosage of what men get when they’re being executed.  
  
He never thought he’d be happy to see Illya Kuryakin lurking over Rudi’s shoulder, arms crossed, with maybe just the _barest_ ghost of amusement in his eyes as the lunatic repeatedly presses down on the broken button.  
  
“You doing okay, cowboy?” He says.  
  
Napoleon wants to smirk, wants to do something to assure the Russian that no, really, what’s a couple volts of electricity, of course he’s fine.  
  
But his head and his stomach and his mouth and his chest just don’t want to cooperate, and so all he says is,  
  
“Really, I’ve been better.”  
  
[-2-]  
  
Rudi is tied to the chair before Illya goes to work on freeing Napoleon. He’s hardly handcuffed, but a warning glare from Illya is all it takes to ensure that Rudi won’t be going anywhere. He’d be insane to try to outrun a KGB agent, especially one built like Illya.  
  
“How many times did he shock you?” Illya asks as he picks at the binds on Napoleon’s hands.  
  
“All a bit of a blur, really.”  
  
‘Blur’ categorizes pretty much everything that occurred in the time between Rudi’s little story and Illya coming to get him. Napoleon isn’t even entirely certain how long it lasted, or even if it’s still the day Victoria caught him.  
  
The dim lighting from that lone light-bulb casts shadows over Illya’s face as he works on the restraints, making him look exactly as dangerous and shady as he had the day Napoleon had first seen him, less than a week ago- had it really only been so many days? No wonder Rudi stays perfectly still in that time, looking far less frightening than he had before.  
  
It takes maybe five minutes, but eventually Napoleon is freed. Though the strap across his chest is the third-last to go, the removal of the last two around his legs is what allows him to breathe normally again.  
  
“That’s better,” Napoleon says, and he stands up.  
  
In retrospect, he should have perhaps moved a little slower.  
  
Like the power going out at the factory the night before, each of Napoleon’s senses abruptly cut out- Illya and Rudi and the room disappear, the silence becomes so much more deafening, the smell and taste of copper evaporates, and for a moment, it almost seems like he’s floating, because he has no sense of touch.  
  
It happens all in the span of a few seconds- they’re all gone, and then they’re all back with a clarity that’s surreal to behold.  
  
Illya is staring at him. “Cowboy?”  
  
Napoleon tries to talk, and for a single, alarming moment, his brain has noticeable trouble connecting to his mouth. That comes back after a moment as well. “I’m fine. Just a bit dizzy is all.”  
  
A shadow of concern passes across the Russian’s face. “Sit.” He points to a chair near Rudi’s desk to indicate that no, he does not mean ‘take a seat in the electric-chair again’.  
  
Napoleon rolls his eyes. “It’s really not that-”  
  
“Sit, or I make you sit. Your choice.”  
  
He’s not in the mood for a fight- and realistically, he has yet to beat Illya at one in top-form, so his odds of winning at the moment are even slimmer.  
  
Slowly, Napoleon steps off the platform. His knees wobble a bit, and he’s surprised to feel a large hand come up to brace his elbow.  
  
But his brain stays connected the way it’s supposed to, and he sits down again without trouble.  
  
[-3-]  
  
When Rudi’s burnt (quite accidentally) to ashes and they’ve been extracted by Alexander-Goddamn-Waverly, it isn’t that Napoleon hasn’t been expecting Saunders to give him instructions like the ones he’s just gotten. This was only ever meant to be temporary. He and Illya will be back to trading insults (and bullets) across the Berlin Wall after they get that disc back.  
  
And so he doesn’t quite understand why his heart starts pulsing as fast as it does, to the point where it’s actually bordering on the very uncomfortable in his chest. It’s hard to explain- it’s a pain and a tightness and a strange feeling of anxiousness that Napoleon is pretty sure he shouldn’t be feeling at the moment, but his heart’s pounding too hard to really process it all.  
  
“Air-sickness, Mr. Solo?” Waverly’s cocked an eyebrow in his direction, and Napoleon just shakes his head, turning away-  
  
-right into the look Illya’s leveling at him. “What?”  
  
“You’re pale.”  
  
Waverly turns away and talks into his headset for a moment, probably communicating with whoever is running that aircraft carrier.  
  
Illya leans forward. “You need to see a doctor.”  
  
“Yes, well, I’d gladly be poked and prodded if we had the time, but-”  
  
“You will see a doctor after this.”  
  
The pounding hasn’t gone away, and in spite of his best attempts to do otherwise, Napoleon is a bit nervous about it now. “Why are you suddenly so concerned about my health?”  
  
Illya stares him down for a long moment, and Napoleon can’t tell if he’s maybe supposed to divine an answer from that look on his own, or if maybe this is simply the expression the KGB agent favors whenever he’s trying to figure out an answer to a hard question.  
  
Or when he’s lying.  
  
Finally, the Russian sniffs. “As a… _partner,_ you’re no use if you’re injured. I won’t have you dragging me down.”  
  
But there’s something funny in his eyes, and suspicion tells Napoleon that maybe Illya heard the Russian-language version of the orders he’s just received, but with “kill the American” as the punch-line instead of “kill the Russian”.  
  
Something else tells him that, as a KGB agent, it’s possible that Illya is familiar with electric-shock- and its after-effects and might actually have some genuine concern about his physical well-being. The skeptical side of him says that’s unlikely; the other side says that Illya got attached to Gaby awfully quickly despite some less-than-wonderful history between their two countries, which says that the Russian bear might be a bit more of the teddy variety than he’s willing to admit.  
  
There’s no time to meditate on it, at the moment: They need to get Gaby back and find that bomb, and he’s worked through worse before.  
  
He thinks.  
  
[-4-]  
  
The following occurs over a span of fourteen hours:  
  
They suit up.  
  
They invade the Vinciguerra’s island estate.  
  
They kill or capture multiple staff members and scientists.  
  
They chase down Alexander Vinciguerra and Gaby.  
  
They get the shit knocked out of them.  
  
They go back to the aircraft carrier.  
  
They find and decimate Victoria Vinciguerra.  
  
They save the day.  
  
And Napoleon feels like _shit_ for every second of it.  
  
[-5-]  
  
_Maybe,_ he thinks, _some rest is all I need._  
  
And really, he has been going non-stop for the last week. He almost wishes he’d held back on some of his, er- _extracurricular_ pursuits. He can’t deny that some of the things he did with Gabrielle the night before the Vinciguerra party may have ventured into athletic territory.  
  
Still, fun was fun, and Napoleon couldn’t have predicted his little rendezvous with Uncle Rudi.  
  
At the end of the day, though, there’s still the matter of Teller’s research.  
  
Napoleon thinks he’s in for a fight, considers reaching for his gun- and then remembers the watch, the one he’d intended to hand over to Illya later before they parted ways. It’s a tense decision he’s forced to make in a matter of seconds; and when he tosses Illya the watch, he’s fully suspecting to be met with a bullet to the face.  
  
But Illya is grateful. Neither of them wants a fight.  
  
(The bonus being that even if he’d never admit it, Napoleon knows he probably won’t win this time either.)  
  
“So, what should we do?”  
  
Illya swallows, and maybe Napoleon’s imagining it, but his face is losing some of its color. Pity roils in his stomach for the blond; if their intel is correct, the KGB doesn’t exactly welcome failures back with open arms. More often than not, it’s usually with a punch or a bullet, depending on the severity of the fuck-up.  
  
“I will have to make a call.”  
  
Napoleon gestures amiably to the phone. Once Illya has turned his back, he slowly sinks down onto the bed, legs shaking slightly. They used to do that in the early days of the war, whenever he had a close call, the aftershocks of a gut-wrenching fear. But he hasn’t had that for a while, and really, he’s not _afraid_ right now.  
  
“Kuryakin, сэр.” Illya says into the phone. He waits.  
  
_I’m fine, I’m fine._  
  
“Нет, я не могу. Не прямо сейчас.” A pause. “Там нет возможности.”  
  
_Stop shaking. You’re fine._  
  
"Да. Да, я понимаю.” Another pause. “Сэр.”  
  
_STOP SHAKING._  
  
It takes a physical effort to force him to keep his legs from trembling when Illya turns back around. He’s still looking a little pale. “I detected some evasion.”  
  
“I must be cautious about how I say it.” Illya explains, and Napoleon nods.  
  
“So, how should we wreck this thing?”  
  
They’re silent for a moment. Then, Illya reaches into his pocket and pulls out a lighter. He shrugs, and Napoleon smirks.  
  
“Didn’t know you smoked, Peril.”  
  
“I don’t,” Illya responds coolly. “Fire is good for other things.”  
  
He’s not wrong.  
  
Illya walks out to the balcony, out into the bright Roman sunrise, and Napoleon sighs with relief. Slowly, so, so slowly, he stands up and paces towards the door. _I’m alright. I’m alright._ The shaking is a little less now, but he feels odd again, his skin, his _brain_ feels wrong. He doesn’t know how to describe it.  
  
But he grabs the bottle of wine from the table and steps outside anyway, forcing a conspiratorial smirk onto his face as he does.  
  
Teller’s research creates a nice little fire on the patio table, and it is around that tiny blaze that they and Gaby are christened U.N.C.L.E by Waverly- after which, they are sent to Turkey.  
  
[-6-]  
  
Napoleon tries to put any discomfort at the back of his mind. Days have passed. It’s clearly getting better. His chest doesn’t feel funny at all (except maybe when they have to run to catch up with their target, then maybe there’s a bit of thumping that just feels _weird_ compared to previous occasions) and he’s not out of breath in the least (except after he runs, and after he climbs the stairs to their hotel room, and when he walks not even a block down the street to get something to eat).  
  
No. He’s fine, really.  
  
“You look a bit pale,” Gaby notes, pulling down her sunglasses a bit so that her sharp eyes can peer over the top. They’re sitting at an outdoor café, waiting for Illya, and Napoleon is having some trouble focusing with such bright sunlight everywhere.  “Are you alright?”  
  
Napoleon gives her a winning smile, and hopes that she doesn’t notice that he’s having trouble focusing on her properly. “Just fine. I’ll be sure to work on my tan while we’re here.”  
  
Gaby’s eyebrows lift a little higher at that, clearly not buying it. “That’s not the sort of pale I’m seeing.”  
  
“Yes, well, not all of us are twenty-five, Gaby,” Napoleon says easily, but with an undercurrent of ‘we-are-not-having-this-talk-right-now-(or-ever)’ to it. “You’re at your peak. It’s all down hill from there. I’m practically an old man.”  
  
And finally he sees a little smirk from her. “Yes, that I know,” She says dryly. “Maybe you should be taking more naps.”  
  
“I’ll take it under consideration,” Napoleon agrees with a smile.  
  
Illya comes back, and Napoleon silently, privately _begs_ Gaby not to tell him about what they’ve just spoken about, because he’s just started letting up on his pestering about Napoleon seeing a doctor and this will get him going again.  
  
But Gaby says nothing, and that’s a relief.  
  
_I’m fine,_ he insists to himself, even though his vision’s still blurry enough that he can’t clearly see the faces of anyone more than a few feet away. _This is not a problem._  
  
_I can handle this._  
  
[-7-]  
  
New York is sweltering when they get back.  
  
He’s not sure why U.N.C.L.E decided to set up shop in the States any more than Gaby or Illya are, but that doesn’t really stop Napoleon from gloating a bit. “Better view,” He says with a smirk. “No statues of Lenin or Stalin to block the glorious skyline.”  
  
“Отвяжись.” Illya grunts.  
  
“A lovely offer, but I’m afraid I usually demand dinner from my suitors before I do anything that intimate.”  
  
Gaby snickers, and Illya’s pout deepens.  
  
They all settle down, and for a time, it’s bureaucratic purgatory with nothing exciting to be found- no missions, no spy-work, no nothing. Napoleon is bored to death.  
  
And concerned.  
  
Because even after being in New York for a month, and everything is paperwork and meetings, Napoleon’s still waking up in the middle of the night with his heart racing, apropos of nothing. Sometimes he can’t see things clearly. And on the rarer occasions, his brain sort of… Fuzzes out for a few minutes, and he tunes back in only to realize that he’s heard nothing of anything that’s just been said.  
  
Now, Napoleon could dismiss and excuse any number of odd or concerning symptoms when he was on a mission, especially the strenuous sort that involved running or recon or, well, being tortured with electricity. In those situations, fatigue is to be expected. Headaches are to be expected.  
  
But it isn’t as easy to explain sudden bouts of sweating and nausea, or a pounding heart and breathlessness, when you’ve been sitting at a conference table for over an hour having dry conversations about budget and mission logistics.  
  
“Are we boring you, Solo?” Waverly asks when he noticed that Napoleon’s eyes are shut.  
  
Well yes, it’s true, Napoleon is bored to tears, but for the moment he’s actually doing his damndest to throw up all over the table.  
  
…Alright, his damndest may not be enough.  
  
“Actually, you are. I’ll be right back.”  
  
Napoleon lurches out of his seat, and he briefly catches sight of the surprise on the faces of the others around the table before he leaves the room (only with a slight waver to his step, thank God) and hurries down to the bathroom.  
  
Suddenly, it’s not just the nausea anymore: Now his heart is doing that pounding, racing thing it randomly does since the incident with Rudi, and he’s not breathing very well, and there are black spots in his vision that only recede when he’s standing still in front of the mirror in the bathroom.  
  
Wow. He looks like hell.  
  
Napoleon still thinks he might throw up, but when he turns to find the toilets, the world _tilts_ badly and starts spinning, and he can’t quite get his bearings until someone else steps into the bathroom.  
  
“What the _hell_ was that?”  
  
Even without the accent, Napoleon might have been able to identify Illya by his _gigantic body_. “Uh…” He tries to think about how to respond, but either he’s too distracted by the nausea and general discomfort, or his brains have been properly scrambled.  
  
Napoleon hears Illya snort, but it’s not with as much amusement or derision as there could have been. “What, are you dying?”  
  
It’s a genuine question.  
  
So Napoleon gives a genuine answer,  
  
“That’s a distinct possibility.”  
  
Everything goes sharp, then blurry, sharp, then blurry, then sharp again- and the last clear thing Napoleon registers is Illya’s expression slowly changing from _ah yes the cowboy is joking again_ to _wait, no, he might actually be dying_.  
  
Then things just gradually go away into the darkness.  
  
[-8-]  
  
Somewhere on the edge of his consciousness, Napoleon detects movements, distant sounds that may as well have been echoing down a long hallway and a couple of flights of stairs, as poorly as he could hear them.  
  
He’s vaguely aware of _pressure_ everywhere, someone or something grabbing and touching his limbs and back, moving him.  
  
But the worst pressure is in his chest.  
  
The worse it gets, the harder it is for him to breathe.  
  
And the harder it is to breathe, the harder it is to…  
  
To…  
  
[-9-]  
  
“You had a heart-attack.” Illya’s delivery is flat, a simple statement.  
  
Napoleon stares at him. “I’m thirty-four.” His voice comes out in a croak.  
  
“I repeat: You had a _heart-attack._ ” There’s an edge to Illya’s tone, something Napoleon reads as _isn’t this just so fucking typical of you, cowboy._  
  
He woke up ten minutes ago. It’s just within the last minute or two that Illya’s realized he’s awake. “How long have I been out?”  
  
“Over half a day. Gaby is worried.” Illya’s glare implies that he holds Napoleon solely responsible for Gaby’s distress, and frankly, Napoleon’s kind of feeling it as well.  
  
“Where is she?”  
  
“I sent her home. Said I’d sit with you. And _not_ hit you when you woke up. It was not an easy promise to make.”  
  
“Yeah, I’ll bet,” Napoleon mutters, shutting his eyes.  
  
After a minute or so, Illya speaks again, and there’s just a _tiny_ touch of softness there. “Feel any better?”  
  
Napoleon’s not going to claim that he feels great, or even _good_ , but he doesn’t currently feel like he’s about to puke, his heart’s not racing, and he can breathe, so he’ll take it. “I’m not dead,” He says slowly, “Which is good.”  
  
When he opens his eyes, Illya’s not looking at him, but at the IV drip that’s connected to his arm. “I have no idea what they’ve given you.”  
  
“Pinch the tube and find out.”  
  
“This isn’t funny,” Illya grinds out in a voice that’s straining to be louder than it is. His arms are crossed and Napoleon can see him digging his fingers into his forearms; it must be taking him everything he has not to jump up and start yelling. “You could have died. Do you not _understand_ this?”  
  
Napoleon is graphically aware of the fact that his health has taken a turn for the dangerous, and shockingly enough, a few years in Europe fighting the Fuhrer and his men has given him a healthy sense of risk and fear. Napoleon is not stupid, and he does not want to die.  
  
But what does Illya want from him? A tearful confession of terror and sorrow, and a promise to be a good little boy who ate his vegetables and didn’t piss on any electrical fences in the near future? Napoleon is a CIA operative, willingly or not: Danger is part of his job, and there’s no point in letting bothersome little symptoms get to him, no point in waxing on about the dangers of dealing with mad Nazi scientists- they speak for themselves, really.  
  
The doctor comes in before Illya can force Napoleon to answer him.  
  
“You didn’t have a heart-attack.”  
  
Napoleon smirks in Illya’s direction. The blond looks like he wants to wrap the IV tube around Napoleon’s neck.  
  
“But if you’d gone on ignoring the problem as you were, you probably would have.”  
  
Now it’s Illya’s turn to smirk, and Napoleon tries to avoid rolling his eyes.  
  
“You need to take this seriously, Mr. Solo. Next time you might not be so lucky.”  
  
No kidding.  
  
[-10-]  
  
When Illya brings him home the next morning, Gaby is waiting.  
  
She greets Napoleon warmly, hugs him, then holds him by the shoulders and fixes him with a stone-cold serious glare.  
  
“Don’t _ever_ scare me like that again,” Gaby warns.  
  
“I will endeavor not to.”  
  
“You had better.”  
  
“He won’t have the opportunity,” Illya drawls. “He’s on bed-rest and medication for a while.” He raises his eyebrows in a way that says ‘I told you so’ even though he’s managed to restrain himself from actually saying the words out loud so far. “No work for now.”  
  
“You’ll have to find something else to occupy your time,” Gaby chirps, sounding unbothered by Napoleon’s newly homebound status.  
  
“Oh, I’ll manage,” Napoleon responds flatly, already dreading the coming weeks of too much quiet and too much stillness and too much _peace_. Too much of any of those things invites deep thinking, and that’s something he tries to avoid, because then things he’d rather not think about come up.  
  
If he could kill Rudi again, he would.  
  
“I made lunch,” Gaby says breezily, which explains the smell of beef coming from the kitchen. “It’s not much, but I thought you might like something after being in the hospital. God knows hospitals have terrible food.” She’s not wrong. She has no idea how not-wrong she is.  
  
Napoleon leans forward and kisses her on the cheek. “Thank you, Gaby,” He says, and means it, because pre-Berlin he’d have come home on his own and probably collapsed on his bed and just given in to exhaustion and everything else. As annoying and intrusive as Illya and Gaby’s mother-hen routines are, Napoleon is strangely grateful to be subjected to it.  
  
Really, and this is the first time he’s actually realized it as a coherent concept- he really does _like_ Illya and Gaby. It’s been a while since Napoleon’s really had proper friends instead of coworkers and informants and partners and allies and lovers, and as strange as their relationship is, he thinks maybe that’s what they are now: Friends.  
  
It doesn’t feel very bad at all.  
  
Certainly better than being electrocuted.  
  
Gaby, appropriately pleased with his gratitude, smiles at him and Illya both. “You’re welcome.” She motions towards the living room. “Come, come, they were just saying something about the President on TV. He’s in Texas, something happened- I’m not sure, they came on just as you walked in.”  
  
Illya shrugs as he follows her. “Some political clusterfuck, no doubt.”  
  
“Nothing too stressful, I hope,” Napoleon remarks. “I wouldn’t want to have another heart-attack.”  
  
-End


End file.
